


Papa Roach

by ThereminVox



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:19:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21592147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: Roach is half-Arthur.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Reader, Arthur Fleck/You, Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	Papa Roach

  
  


* * *

  
Peregrinating through Arthur Fleck’s apartment is a venture met by seasoned bewilderment. An appetiser enhanced by the sudden, inexplicable spice of insatiable curiosity. Your intrepid pilgrimage through the eccentric man’s infamous residence is one that leaves you pining with ineffable hunger. A hunger that rivals the wizened, piteous stomach of your evening host.

Infamy presides in every interstice of his univiting stretch of interior design. Bacteria conducts a chronic festival along the fridge’s neglected anatomy, teeming with generations of primitive disease, ripe and ready to infiltrate the hapless body upon negligent consumption. One would think a person who demonstrates remarkable expertise in cosmetology would adhere to less exigent appeals for basic hygiene and sanitation. Be that as it may, the emaciated dwellings, attended by its equally famished resident, was egregiously delayed in Spring cleaning.

Disposing from your addled mind the pressing matters of ‘how’ or ‘why’ you were here, ambulating about a mysterious clown’s contrasting complexion of abode, you supposed he may have had half a mind of his own to appoint you as a maid. ‘Health inspector’ would have been just as, if not more, germane to the situation, given the near squalid nature of your client’s presenting case. Fortunately, you could deduce by the relatively mild air quality and absent need to exert excess pressure on the lungs to breathe, that the verdict was not entirely on the verge of eviction or indefinite quarantine.

Evidence displayed by the subject under scrutiny seemed to suggest otherwise. Indeed, the piercing pressure of his lingering gaze might have easily conjured a sense of danger for the budding hypochondriac. Two emeralds, glinting with promise of whetted injury, threaten to puncture your vitreous humour and infect the sclera with pink eye, effectively inviting a strain of unidentified pathogens to roam free through the frequency of an unsuspecting pineal gland.

In a matter of three tense seconds, the man divorces eye contact. Instead, his measure of intensity is redirected to the seams of his pitch scarlet mouth. The crimson rivulets of blood that channel from his nose to the quirk of his philtrum tickles a twitching smile from which a single question evokes. He ponders to your affiliation with the clown crowd marauding through the streets of Gotham with fits of furor at the fore of their prefrontal cortex. His query is interrogative but not prying. The adrenaline he possessed before from energised praise was gradually dying. To the whirring motors of the fridge’s internal operations, he inquired. To the strangely suffocating expanse of oscillating shade that continues to shroud since your arrival.

Either a neglected light bill is being repurposed as a coaster or he was simply confirming your prediction of this being some cliché, if not peculiar, hostage scenario. In any case, you’re eager to notice that it’s the first he’s spoken in the approximate hour and a half you’ve spent together. Unfortunately, for him, your dissimulated speech impediment had yet to be informed to him in an effort to justify your responding silence. You had been taken to awkwardly assessing the kitchen, pretending your hand was protected by polyvinyl gloving, hovering an index to glide cautiously over the various surface of countertop, cabinet and bronzed doorknobs stripped of a once vibrant sheen.

You pretend not to acknowledge the stealthy loom of a shadow multiplying the unlit space further into nebulous obscurity. If not for the steady glow of cyan filtering from that glorified cooling unit, you’d be impersonating the blind.

“I was hoping to get that fixed soon.” There’s a monotone imposed on his voice that fails to betray any hint of malicious intent. Not the faintest trace or taint of small talk utilised as distraction.

Despite having no claim of familiarity to his lifestyle or mannerisms, you were inclined to express a modicum of disbelief to this statement. Thus, the aim of your concentration is focused instead to the appliance that, by degree of intuition, may very well be housing scores of tumescent, pus-filled larvae and wingless, constipated bloatflies in one putrid medley, prepared and served by the landlord to be weaponised towards unsuspecting visitors/victims. An entomologist’s wet dream, to be sure, but one you weren’t entirely titillated by if fate accosted your stoic face with one eldritch maggot lovechild.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you (and he) were about to witness, once the slow, steady pull of your fingers had bared the contents of the fridge in raw, unadulterated detail. Stripped bare and dissected to oblivion, there was nothing to be seen. The fridge’s anatomy was as stark and naked as Joker’s uncut cock behind that single layer of red slacks, unrestricted by the confines of strangulating underwear.

“Well, that’s odd…”

Although you agree with this guileless admission of perplexity, it isn’t the barren, peckish fridge he’s referring to.

“It’s way past your bedtime, Randall. Remember what I told you about sneaking out after curfew?” Tsking under his breath for good measure, the clown continues to speak at length about dispensing an apt taste of carnal punishment and chastisement all the while speaking in the same innocuous volume.

_Randall?_

_Curfew?_

_Who is he talking t-_

Posthaste, your ponderous thoughts are severed and scattered in mosaical fragments when you turn to confront (and verify) your suspicions of a schizophrenic captor. What you see instead leaves you _wishing_ schizophrenia was actually the culprit of this bizarre course of events.

Still opting to remain « selectively mute », you simply deign to flicker your eyes cartoonishly between the insouciant clown and this infernal insect he’s taken to communicating with, bathed in a heavenly blue light, who seemingly appeared troubled and only mildly vexed by the sudden intrusion upon his nightly commute. Arthur, interpreting your muted persistence as substitute for « That’s a roach. » in the most shocked conveyance you could muster (in spite of the dithering nuisance of alexithymia), dispels your delusional musings with a simple, if not infuriating, affirmation of reality.

“Yes.” Accompanied by a furrowed stare, as if blatantly affronted by your repelled reaction. Unbeknownst to him, repulsion was actually the last thing you were experiencing. To express this with body language alone, you move to take one definitive stride before both creatures, only one of which being attracting in presence.

Being nurtured by naturalists and residing in a location where vegetation dominated the rustic landscape, handling insects and animals of any known variety was as foreign a touch as thirdhand nicotine was to the peeling paint of Arthur’s ailing, decrepit walls. But, there was just something about roaches that provoked visceral rejection. Similar in form and function to the bottom feeders of the briny ocean, there was irony to be evinced by the casual digestion of recycled parasites and dead skin cells yet a recurring odium to insect kin was unlikely to convince even the most avid of gym rats to make crickets and termites a protein supplement.

Yet, here you are, cupping this tiny critter with a latent taste of remorse coating the throat. An innocent, unassuming creature, infused with animosity from centuries of negative classical conditioning. Having been thoroughly enlightened to this perspective, you don’t know whether or not to betray your pact of silence with a revealing chuckle. Between your passive abduction by this ~~gorgeous~~ man dressed in clown attire, the persisting crescendo of riots outside, muffled in tenor yet no less intense in fervour, police sirens chiming closer with each measured breath and beat, the manic grin of a criminal clown widening at the sight of you and « _Randall_ » becoming acquainted in his flea-bitten relish of home, only one fibril of thought unravels amid your exchange with the miniature alien nestled within the palm of your hand, antennas tickling the air with uncertainty.

While any other ~~normie~~ would have instantly truncated this narrative by the concluding statement of _“Kill it with fire!”_ or calling Terminex while scolding and lecturing clown boy for 15 minutes straight about the importance of cleanliness (oblivious to the fact that he’s secretly aroused by it), your only concern involves playing the game of this human Twister you find yourself entangled by.

In doing so, you must first analyse exactly why the human Twister has christened a random pest as if it were a pet. And with the name “Randall", of all names. Looking once more between Arthur and the roach, you analyse and commit their images to memory, searching absurdly for any hue or tint of physical resemblance.

Which can only lead to, quite possibly, the most urgent and surrealist question of the night:

_**Who’s the father ?** _


End file.
